Trial By Fire
by Lady Frost1
Summary: Gabriel Knight is no stranger to shadows. But this time, when all the signs point to him, Gabriel finds he must make a choice...to sacrifice everything or become the very thing he was born to fight.
1. Default Chapter

****

PROLOGUE

The darkness rises, tendrils of black, curls of smoky death. He watches it creep along the cobblestones at his feet, over the toes of his fashionable loafers. (Although, he isn't sure when he's _ever_ worn loafers before.) 

He knows it's a dream, knows it can't possibly be real. He's had these kind of dreams his whole life. This isn't the first and won't be the last. These dreams, these visions are a gift and a curse. It's in the blood, he can't fight it. (But he'd give almost anything to be normal.)

The darkness loops around his ankle, creeps over the hem of his black slacks. He can't shift his foot, can't move away. He can only watch it rise. Something inside of him feels defeated. It's not really fear; it's more like numb acceptance. He's so tired. He's fought so long. He just wants to rest now. Just rest and give in.

There's a scream in the distance, so soft that at first, he thinks it's merely the wind through the tree tops. But it comes again, louder this time, closer. The scream is full of rage, of fear, of despair. And he knows that voice. He _knows _it.

He shakes his leg, shakes his body, shakes his soul and the darkness recedes, hissing. It doesn't want to be denied its ultimate prize. The screaming is louder now almost as if it's just out of his sight.

He begins to run even as part of him fears he will be too late. The darkness follows, close, closer, just at his heels. He feels trapped between fear and courage. Which will save him? Which will save them both?

He stops in the middle of the street and the darkness halts, pulsing. 

He opens his mouth and screams out a name.

The darkness echoes, shrieking.


	2. ONE: Shattenjager

****

ONE: "_Hello my son, the darkness said and I did naught but stare._

I've brought the gift of death to you, so nuture it with care."

His eyes popped open. But he didn't rise sweating. It took a lot more then a dream about darkness to bring the sweating on these days. He was pretty sure that he rarely even yelled out in his sleep anymore. Of course, since he slept the majority of his nights away alone, it was also hard to ask anyone.

He slid to the edge of the bed, trailing the softness of the Egyptian cotton sheet with him, the only barrier between himself and the coolness of the bedroom. He ran his hands through his hair slowly, pushing the thickness of it off his forehead and out of his eyes. It was tangled, it was just a little damp but then he'd fallen face first down on the bed right after he'd showered the night before. 

He reached onto the cherry wood nightstand beside the bed, fumbling in the twilit dark for his cigarettes and lighter. He wasn't sure when he'd taken up smoking, it seemed like he'd been doing it since birth. The thumb wheel hissed as he spun it, the tiny orange flame casting the smallest of lights on his hand, on his face.

It was a good face, handsome really, with a strong jaw and just a suggestion of a cleft in the chin. The cheekbones were high and sharp above the softly hallowed cheeks and the straight, sharp blade of his nose. His eyes were blue, a good solid blue the color of the cloudless sky or the river undisturbed in summer. The face was regal, almost arrogant in its beauty and topped by thick, shiny crop of dark blonde hair that had a tendency to curl a little over his ears and forehead in the heat.

He inhaled sharply, letting the acrid smoke fill his lungs and held it as his mind wandered. It didn't take a genius to figure out that something was going to happen. These dreams were always prophetic in some way. The hard part was figuring out if it was something he was supposed to stop or something that had already happened that he was supposed to uncover.

He slid his hand farther along the nightstand until it closed over the warmth of solid gold. He traced the etching with his fingers, felt the snake and lion locked in mortal combat. A moment of sheer comfort slid over his soul. It always helped relax him; somehow it was as if he knew there was power in it, strength.

He crushed the cigarette out in the overflowing ash tray on the nightstand and stood up slowly. The sheet fell away like water and he padded naked through the bedroom and into the bathroom.

A flick of his fingers had the harshness of the over head light spilling down onto his face. He squinted his eyes and stared at his face in the mirror. He looked…stark. It was the only word he could think of to describe himself. There were dark circles under his eyes and an underlying paleness to his skin that managed to make him look pasty. 

He certainly wasn't going to win any beauty contests looking like this. 

But, it wasn't the first or the last time he'd go without sleep. It seemed to be in his lot in life to lose sleep. 

He practically fell into the shower. The stinging heat of the water felt like nirvana. He thrust his face into the spray and tried to finish waking up. 

He wasn't entirely sure he was ready for another trip down evil lane. Didn't a man deserve a break once in awhile? It had been less then three months since his last case. He spent the better part of eight months tracking down what had turned out to be nothing more then rabid dogs that had been attacking the smaller animals in a suburban area. So he'd saved the day for every spoiled little fluff ball mutt and cat in the area. All hail the conquering hero.

He wasn't sure he could take another bum case like that. He wasn't Ace Ventura for Christ's sake.

He slid out of the water, slipped a towel around his waist and was in the kitchen making coffee when the door bell rang. 

A quick glance at the clock on the stove told him it was just shy of five a.m. He wasn't sure who would be paying a social call at this time in the morning. 

He hoped to god it wasn't Mosely. He wasn't up to the daily trials of the dumb and hopeless today. As much as he loved his erstwhile, hush puppie loving friend, he was just too damn tired to deal with it.

He walked from the kitchen, down the tiny hallway toward the door, careful not to trip over discarded shoes or magazines as he went.

As far as houses went, his wasn't a winner. It was a moderately sized (small) beach front condo (shack) with a slanted, peeling roof, two bedrooms, one bath, a kitchen that doubled as a wash room and a living room that was probably about half the size of a sardine can. 

He absolutely loved it.

It wasn't that he couldn't afford better. His writing career had pretty well taken off since _The Dark Knights, _his most recently published novel, had gone all the way to number four on the New York Times Bestsellers list and held the spot there for almost twenty weeks in a row. The royalty checks were constantly pouring in and he had just recently signed a minimum three book contract with a rather prestigious publishing house. So money, although it had once been, was no longer the center of his universe. 

So, he could have probably been living rather comfortably in a modest sized mansion in the Garden District or a penthouse apartment in the Vieux Carre (French Quarter to the layman) but he liked this shack that sat a few feet away from the Gulf of Mexico and that smelled like the bayou and tasted like the salt of the sea. 

At night, when the humid air was just shy of cool and the willows that slid their branches through the murkiness of the shore line were whispering secrets to the night, it was easy to pretend nothing had ever changed for himself. That he was just a simple man with nothing more then no money and an uncertain future.

The house was his haven. And, like the havens of all men, often quite dirty. His clothes went unwashed until he was down to the very last threads he possessed, he had magazines from a year ago stacked up on the small oak table in the living room and stuffed under the couch; shoes missing mates were spread from kitchen to bedroom like a line of rejected people at the unemployment office. He often tripped upon entering and tripped upon leaving but it was perfect. Really perfect.

He got to the front door without too much hassle and pulled open the front door without looking through the peep hole. He seldom did. If someone was going to shoot him in the face when the door opened, so be it. At least he wouldn't have to have his last moments filled with fear. 

The heat of the morning washed through the door, still cool enough that it tickled his skin but warm enough that his damp hair would no doubt begin to curl before he shut the door again. 

He had a moment of surprise when he saw who was standing on his sagging porch, managing to look pristine even in the muggy morning heat.

It had been a long time since he'd had a woman waiting on his door step at the crack of dawn in the morning. And none of them that he could remember had ever managed to look so regal while doing so. Most of them consisted of box dyed hair, outrageous tattoos and cleavage that went down to their waist. 

The woman staring back at him was anything but trashy. 

She wasn't very tall. If he had to hazard a guess he'd put her at 5"4 tops and she was built slim through the hips and stomach. Although there was no hiding the generousness of her chest even under the serviceable navy blue of her suit jacket and damned if she wasn't wearing a knee length navy skirt and high heels even out here in the middle of the bayou. He didn't want to imagine what it was like to slug through foot deep areas of swamp in three inch heels. 

Although admittedly, his property was closer to beach in most areas then swamp. 

Her hair, a color too dark to be red, too red to be brown, was pulled tightly back from her face into a harsh knot at the base of her neck. Without the hair surrounding it, the face was beautiful. He figured there was maybe a hundred women in the whole world that could go without make up, with their hair slicked back like a man and still manage to be beautiful. 

She had high cheekbones and a mouth that was just a little wide and little bottom heavy. Her eyes, he was banking on them being some beautiful shade of brown, were hidden behind reflective lenses in, what he figured would be about six hundred dollar, sunglasses. 

He was suddenly very conscious about the fact that he was standing in the door way in a faded blue bath towel. But, he was also very careful not to let her see that.

She said, in a voice that soft and had an accent that he found hard to place, "Gabriel Knight?"

When he nodded, she pulled back one side of the navy jacket and brought his attention to the suggestion of the shoulder holster and the shiny gold shield attached to belt of her skirt. 

He had another one of his classic moments of blankness before it registered. Then he said, softly, "Shit." and pushed one hand against the door frame, the other going up to rub at his forehead and the headache threatening to grow behind his eyes.

The woman smiled, cajoling and understanding at the same time and a small dimple flashed to right side of her mouth. "Sorry to disturb you at this time in the morning, Mr. Knight but I'm Special Agent Frost. Do you mind if I come in for a minute? I just have some questions."

Gabriel sighed and stepped back from the door. "Do I get to ask what this is about?"

Agent Frost stepped over the threshold. "I'd be shocked if you didn't."

Gabriel nodded and started through the living room. "I've got coffee on. You want some?"

"Sure. That would be great." She followed him down the hallway, careful to avoid tragedy by stepping over shoes. 

Gabriel moved easily, pouring coffee into two clean mugs and placing one on the small island in the middle of the kitchen. His mind was still trying to wrap itself around what the feds might want with him when Agent Frost cleared her throat and said, in a completely blank voice.

"I can wait a few minutes if you'd like to…put something on."

Gabriel looked up at her face and saw the light blush that had crept over her cheeks. He'd forgotten he was in just a towel but it seemed that Agent Frost hadn't.

He nodded absently and said, "Sure. I'll be right back, just make yourself comfortable."

He wandered into the bedroom and scrounged around until he found a pair of (thankfully) clean underwear, his faded jeans from the night before and ribbed tank top that usually served as an undershirt. 

Barefoot, he padded back into the kitchen and found that Agent Frost had made her way out of the kitchen, through the sliding door, and out onto the screened back porch.

Gabriel picked up his mug of coffee and followed, sliding the door closed at his back. 

She turned as she heard him and she'd taken off her sun glasses. 

He'd been wrong, her eyes weren't brown, they were green. Almost startlingly, pale green. The only words that came to mind were sea foam. The eyes themselves were almond shaped and just slightly tilted at the ends and heavily lashed. Exotic. They were exotic. Like a cat.

Shaking himself mentally, Gabriel stepped up to lean against the railing and face her. 

He said, "What can I do for ya, Agent Frost?"

He figured that he probably wasn't imagining her face was still a little flushed. But it could have been from the heat. He didn't think so, but it could have been.

She cleared her throat once and skimmed her hand over her hair, a nervous gesture. Yeah, it wasn't the heat. Or at least not the kind that comes from the bayou.

"How much land do you own, Mr. Knight?"

"It's Gabriel."

She just looked at him.

Shrugging, he said. "I dunno really. I think something like a hundred acres. Why?"

She tilted her head, studying him he imagined. Trying to figure him out. "Because last night, someone was murdered on your property Mr. Knight. So now you get to tell me where you were between midnight and four this morning."

Gabriel stood up slowly, feeling his blood chill. The dream. It had to have something to do with the dream. On his property, on his fucking property.

He ran a hand around the back of his neck. "Jesus. I got in about two o'clock this morning. Before that I was at O'Malley's over on Bourbon Street with a buddy of mine, Frank Mosely."

"Can anyone verify that you were there until two o'clock?"

He just looked at her. "Yeah, Mosely and everybody else in the place I'd imagine. It was my birthday party. When I left, the party was still goin'." Gabriel just shrugged. "The bartenders name is Tim. He'll tell you that I was there until two o'clock and when I stumbled out, I was so shit faced that I dropped trow and pissed all over Mosely's brand new Mazda."

Agent Frost managed to maintain a blank face through this tirade. He wondered if she was considering the fact that he seemed to be volunteering too much information. He just felt like she needed to know that he'd been drunk. He couldn't have murdered anyone. He _wouldn't_ have. 

She stared at him for a long moment before she said, "Okay. What about between two and four?"

Gabriel sighed. "I got in about two, fell into the shower and then collapsed into bed. I just got out of bed about fifteen minutes before you came callin'."

"Were you alone?"

"What?"

"Were you alone in bed?"

He looked at her for a long moment and then smiled. "I wasn't _that _drunk."

Her face flushed again and Gabriel couldn't help himself, he was pleased. She was doing her job but he'd have bet his right eye that she'd had an alternative reason for asking.

Gabriel leaned back on the railing. "Her name's Amber Franks. She's a deputy with the 68th precinct. The same station that Detective Frank Mosely works in. I'm betting you'll find both of them there."

Agent Frost nodded and scribbled in the little notebook she held in her right hand. Gabriel wondered if she was putting little X's through Deputy Franks name.

Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew a plastic baggy that contained a Louisiana driver's license with a picture of a shiny faced blonde with overly tanned skin and blue eyes. The corner of the license was brown with old blood. The license said Marianne Beth Costas.

Gabriel stared at the license for a long moment. He wanted to remember the face, it was important that he remember what she had looked like. Because, deep down, he knew he was going to have to help her. He didn't know why or how yet but she was dead because of him. And the dream had been telling him that he was the only person in the darkness that could save her.

He lifted his eyes, met those of Special Agent Frost and said, "Who is she?"

"She's the dead girl, Mr. Knight."

"I got that. I mean, who is she?"

"She's the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Enrique Costas. They are the owners of the Costas Air Travel Agency. She was eighteen, pretty and Harvard bound. Now she's dead, on your property and I'm going to find out why." There was something on her face, something determined that made Gabriel realize that maybe, just maybe she didn't think he was responsible.

But the cop in her wouldn't let her ignore the facts. Marianne Costas was dead and unless Amber would back his story that she'd spent those few hours with him (debatable as he'd pretty much passed out in the middle of anything exciting and she'd been after him for months) he was about to become the number one suspect. 

Gabriel sighed and looked out over the Gulf of Mexico. The sun was rising steadily now and the softness that came with early morning was fading. From the heaviness of the air, Gabriel was betting it was going to be a scorcher. 

Agent Frost said quietly. "Stay available, Mr. Knight. And stay in the area."

"I know the drill."

"Good. Have a nice day. I'll be in touch." She turned and opened the screen door, slipping down the steps. Apparently she was going to walk back around the house to her car. 

Gabriel watched her go and wondered if he'd see the inside of a jail cell before night fall.


	3. TWO: Your own backyard

****

TWO: "_The Face of Death struck fear in me and so I tried to run._

A chase! With glee it clapped it hands! I so do love the fun!

She pulled over a mile down the dirt road that had lead to that little shack at the edge of the bayou. Her heart was still racing, her palms were sweaty. It was one the reasons she hadn't offered to shake hands upon departure.

She laid her head back against the head rest and licked her lips. 

It had been too long. That was all; it had been too long since she'd been with a man. 

She was the joke of the office really. Saint Sydney, Chaste Sydney, the woman made out of steel. The only one who never even thought about sex let alone partake of such sin. 

She wanted them to see her that way. It made things so much easier. The men respected her, the women admired her. She was, if not liked, looked up to by quite a few other Agents in the Bureau. 

She was the straight arrow. She never wavered, never faltered and always, always did her job. She never got too close, never went too far, never tested the limits. And yet, in about five minutes, had managed to (mentally) cross every boundary she had ever set for herself. 

All for the sight of a small, ragged blue towel, a well defined, dewy torso and a face likely carved by angels (or devils.)

She was fairly certain she'd handled herself professionally, at least mostly so. But he was a man, and likely picked up on every moment of discomfort she'd felt in his presence. It was clear that he knew he'd affected her in a distinctly masculine way. He'd smiled, he'd posed, and he'd all but winked at her. But, then again, it was possible that was her own interest talking and he'd simply been his own charming self, treating her as he would any member of the opposite sex.

There was no doubt that Gabriel Knight was a flirt. She'd known that much about him before she'd even walked up the porch to his front door. She'd even known that he was handsome, having studied his case file and seen the picture on the dust jacket of his novels more then once. But the picture hadn't prepared her for the man. The only word she could think of to describe him was charisma. The man was loaded down with charisma and (quite obviously) knew how to use it.

Sydney slid her hands over the wheel, a comfort gesture. She was being ridiculous really. He hadn't been interested in her, not in the slightest. Not like it would have made a difference anyway even if he'd gotten down on one knee and proclaimed his all consuming love for her. He was a suspect and she was a straight arrow. She wouldn't stray. No way.

She was fairly certain he'd never seen Marianne Costas before. The moment he'd seen her picture, there'd been blankness in his eyes, confusion. Sydney was the best Agent she knew at reading body language. His shoulders had tightened but she was betting that was just because it was suddenly real, no longer just her word.

She pressed her foot back on the gas and eased out onto the road, driving slowly and carefully. She had to get herself together. She had people to interview. 

Logically, she knew she should swing by O'Malley's, check on the first of his alibi. By she found herself making a right onto the highway instead. Apparently, she was going to the 68th precinct and was going to pay a visit to a certain Deputy. 

It wasn't jealousy. For god's sake she'd only just met the man. It was just good detective work. Just good detective work that's all. (Right.)

~~~~~~~~

The 68th precinct was a dirty grey building wedged between a donut shop and an athletic store. It was sort of like the oldest cop joke in the book. All they had to do was walk next door and they'd have all the fat and carbs their little hearts desired. 

Sydney slid out of the unmarked black sedan and strode across the parking lot, past two rather beat up cruisers and up the stone steps to the front doors of the building. Inside the lobby, a woman (a prostitute) sat handcuffed to a steel bar on a ratty looking bench in front of the counter. 

She cast a look at Sydney as she came through the door, one that quite obviously was meant to be degrading. 

Sydney ignored her and walked toward the counter to a rather loudly stated, "Oink."

The man at the desk, a portly fellow with graying hair and a well tended moustache, said blandly, "Lucinda, knock it off, would ya?" He flashed a smile at Sydney and she took the time to read his badge. Frick. 

"What can I help ya with ma'am?"

She pushed her jacket to the side and unclipped her shield, placing it on the counter. "Special Agent Frost, F.B.I. I need to see Detective Mosely and Deputy Franks."

Officer Frick's smile faded. He looked like he was going to say something less then accommodating when a voice called, "Officer Frick, be so kind as to let the Agent through."

Sydney turned her eyes to study the man who'd spoken. He was short, no more then five six, and had just a little suggestion of muscle gone to fat around his middle and through his round and endearing face. His hair, what little there was of it, was combed over and a non-descript shade of brown liberally sprinkled with salt and pepper. His eyes, surprisingly pretty were a soft shade of hazel and sat above a slightly crooked nose and small mouth surrounded by a dark five o'clock shadow. Since it was barely six a.m. she was assuming he probably had the shadow all the time.

He was dressed in a pair of slight rumpled mud brown slacks and a shirt that couldn't really be called any other color then pink. His tie, dark green with Christmas trees all over it, told her he'd probably dressed in the dark before coming into work that morning. There was a shield clipped to his belt that looked shiny and out of place against such a sad wardrobe.

She smiled and said, "Detective Mosely?"

"Yep. Why don't you come on back? I'll have Officer Simms over here get us some coffee." He turned to a fresh faced looking rookie who was no doubt straight out of the academy and said, "Simms, see if you can find Franks while you're at it."

Officer Simms nodded eagerly, puffed up his chest with importance and surprisingly didn't trip on himself in his effort to do Mosely's bidding.

Sydney opened the gate leading back into the inner sanctum and walked toward the office that Mosely was currently standing in front of. 

They shook hands (hers was dry by now) and he escorted her with a hand on my back through the door into his cramped, but somehow charming, office.

He cleared a few books off a rather plush looking chair and gestured for her to have a seat. After she did, he rounded the rickety old desk and sat down himself. The chair groaned under the assault.

He managed to smile, (which made him seem almost handsome) and said. "What can I do for you?"

She smiled and took out her notebook. "Were you at O'Malley's Pub between the hours of midnight and four a.m. last night?"

For a moment, Mosely just sat there, shocked. Then he said, "Uh, yeah. Actually. Can I ask why you want to know?"

"Well, obviously someone's dead Detective." She smiled when she said it. See just a harmless question with a serious outcome. 

Mosely's smile faltered, "Right. Yeah I was at the pub from about ten until about four this morning."

"Were you there with –"She looked down at the notebook pretending to check the name, although she damn well knew it. "A Mr. Gabriel Knight?"

Mosely managed not to look surprised this time. He had on his cop face now. "Yeah. It was his birthday."

"What time did Mr. Knight leave the pub?"

"About a quarter to two I think."

"Was he alone when he left?"

Mosely couldn't keep the scorn off his face now. "No. He was with Deputy Franks. Though I'm pretty sure you already knew that."

"Just corroborating the story, Detective. That's my job."

"Right. Anyway, he was wasted, he left with Franks."

"Do you know where he went after he left the pub?"

Mosely leaned back in his chair, making it creak. "Can't say I do. Although I'd assume after he pissed all over my car, he probably took Franks back to his place."

Sydney nodded and opened her mouth to ask something else when the office door opened and a perfectly coiffed head poked through. 

"Detective? Simms said you wanted to see me."

"Yeah, Franks. Come on in." Mosely gestured and Sydney watched Officer Franks walk through the door. 

She was pretty much what Sydney had been expecting. She was about 5"10 and built small and slender from head to foot. Her hair, a very dark blonde (probably fake), was pulled back into a high ponytail with swishy little tail. She looked rested, her make up was perfect and her face was something that struck a little too close to Britney Spears for Sydney's taste. 

"This is Special Agent Frost from the F.B.I. She has a few questions she'd like to ask you."

Franks' eyebrows lifted and she turned her gaze to Sydney as if noticing her for the first time. 

After a moment of studying each other, Sydney said, "Officer Franks. Where were you between the hours of two and four a.m. last night?"

Franks' face pinked, just the slightest bit. She said, quite softly, "I…um…I don't really think…"

"Franks, just tell the Agent where you were." Mosely's voice was tired.

"I was with…a friend."

Sydney's smile was harsh. "The name of this friend is…?"

"Gabriel. Gabriel Knight."

Sydney nodded. "I see. And what time did you leave Mr. Knight's this morning?"

Franks managed to look embarrassed. "I think it was about a quarter to four."

"Did Mr. Knight leave your presence at any time between the time you arrived at his house and the time you left?"

Franks fidgeted a little bit. "Well, he uh took a shower for about ten minutes after we got there."

"And then?"

"Is this really necessary?" Mosely was looking positively ill at the thought of hearing intimate details.

Sydney said, quite calmly, "Every detail helps, Detective. You know that. Officer?"

"And then we uh…we were intimate with each other for about fifteen minutes and he well…he uh fell asleep."

Mosely's face went purple. "Oh man…" And then, he couldn't hide the smile. "Fifteen minutes…" He snickered under his breath. "I always knew it."

Sydney managed to hold in her laugh. "Okay. Did he leave or exit the bed again before you left?"

"No. He was passed out like the dead." Franks looked a little disappointed by that. "I tried to sleep but I couldn't. So I turned on the light in the bedroom and read for awhile. Then about 3:30 I got dressed and had a muffin and left about a quarter to four."

"Okay." Sydney stood slowly and smiled, complacently. "Alright then. That's about all I have for now. Detective Mosely, Officer Franks. Thank you for your time. Please stay available in case I have any more questions."

Franks nodded. Mosely said, "Hey, is Gabe in some kind of trouble?"

Sydney looked at him for a moment and light dawned on his face.

"This is about that girl, that Costas girl. They found her body on the edge of his property. You don't think…Gabe wouldn't…" Mosely shook his head, shocked.

Frank's managed to look oblivious. Though Sydney figured it wasn't that hard of a look for her.

Sydney sighed. "Thank you for your time. I'll be in touch."

She walked out of the precinct and was headed down the stone steps when she heard the roar of a motorcycle and looked up to see Gabriel Knight swing himself between two cruisers and kill the engine.

She stopped, gathered herself and walked toward him as he dismounted. He was dressed in the outfit she'd left him in save for the addition of cranberry colored t-shirt that he'd thrown over the tank top she remembered. The shirt read Cajun Style in bold white letters across the chest. 

She stopped a foot from him and smiled. "Mr. Knight."

"Agent Frost."

"It's illegal to ride without a motorcycle helmet in Louisiana."

He managed to look sheepish. "Well, I think I lost my helmet."

"Right." She started walking unable to stay in his presence for too long without that intense pressure in her chest.

"Uh, hey."

She turned back, one eyebrow lifted.

"I didn't do anything."

She tilted her head, studying him. "Both the detective and the officer corroborated your alibi."

"Does that mean I'm off the hook?"

"Not yet. It just means you're a little looser on it now."

He smiled, just a little lift of the mouth but it was enough to start her heart beating hard. 

"Well, good to know." He took a step toward her. "Where you from, Agent Frost?"

She barely managed not to take a step back. "Maine."

"Ah, east coast. I wondered about that accent."

She thought it was an odd comment from someone whose accent was so obviously southern. In fact, she was pretty sure she didn't have an accent at all.

"You ever been to N'Orleans before?"

She studied him for a moment. "Can't say I have."

"What do you think so far?"

"It's hot and there are a lot of bugs."

His smile lifted, dangerously close to a grin. "That all?"

"I haven't exactly had time to sight see, Mr. Knight."

"Gabriel."

"Mr. Knight." She smiled. 

"What? No first names with suspects?"

"Something like that."

His teeth were very white and very straight. "Well, I won't be a suspect f'eva." 

It was the accent. It had to be. She was charmed by that old southern boy charm.

She smiled again and turned to walk to her car. "Good bye, Mr. Knight."

"Why don't you let me show you the town?"

She froze.

"Ya know. The hotspots. The night life." He poked his head around her shoulder. "Jackson Square, the Café du Monde. We've got some real interestin' places down here."

She turned back to him. "Mr. Knight. I refuse to call you by your first name. What makes you think I would possibly even consider a date with you?"

He wagged his finger. "Not a date. A tour. Think of me like your down home Cajun tour guide."

She felt her smile lift again. "Good bye Mr. Knight. I have a job to do."

"Tell me you'll think about it."

She laughed, unable to stop herself. 

"Come on. Just say you'll think about it."

"It would be a lie."

"I can live with that."

"Okay. I'll think about it." 

She left him smiling at her and for the life of her, couldn't figure out why she knew, deep down, that it hadn't been a lie at all.


End file.
